


Better Than the Best Dream

by Mount_Seleya



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Sherlock, Dirty Talk, Fantasizing, Inspired by Fanart, It's For a Case, M/M, Manipulative Sherlock, Masturbation, Military Kink, Not Betaed, Not Britpicked, PWP, Rough Sex, Sex Toys, Sherlock Always Gets His Way, Snark, Table Sex, Top John, Virgin Sherlock, Walking In On Someone, john has a filthy mouth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-30
Updated: 2014-01-30
Packaged: 2018-01-10 13:08:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1160092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mount_Seleya/pseuds/Mount_Seleya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock arranges for John to walk in on him <i>in flagrante delicto</i>, ostensibly to solve a case, and gets more than he bargained for — which happens to be everything he's ever imagined.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Better Than the Best Dream

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a lovely (and very much NSFW!) [piece of fanart](http://jujuproblems.tumblr.com/post/65252696590/boojuproblems-j-john-yeah-i-finally) by Jujuproblems.

With a great huff, Sherlock steps back from the sofa, sweat beading his bare chest in a fine sheen. His gaze rolls toward the sitting room, where there's now a wide, dust bunny-strewn swath of floor below the bullet-riddled smiley. _Ah, so that's where my bone cutters went_ , he thinks, spying the long-lost object among all the little grey wisps.  
  
Giving his head a shake to clear his mind, he looks at the sofa again, then over its back to the front door of the flat.  
  
Natasha Reynolds had been found sprawled naked and face-down on the floor in front of her sofa. Her killer had managed to sneak up on her from behind and slit her throat while she was engaged in an act of self-pleasure.  
  
He has twenty minutes. Twenty minutes before the homeless woman he slipped a hundred quid yesterday unleashes takeaway curry all over the waiting room floor at John's clinic and the staff are forced to take the afternoon off. Twenty minutes to coax his body into helping him reenact the circumstances of the crime so that he can better understand them.  
  
A shiver runs through him as his gaze falls on the long aquamarine rod wedged between two cushions of the sofa. Beside it is a bottle of clear fluid. The mechanics are going to be different with him, obviously, but that matters little. What matters is whether he will hear the door creaking open and feel the shift in air pressure on his naked skin.  
  
Drawing a deep, steadying breath, he clambers onto the sofa on his knees, then turns so that his back is to the door. His feet slot into the gap between the cushions and the back of the sofa. He sucks in another breath, dropping his chin to take in the long, pale line of his torso, the dark trail of hair leading from his navel to his quiescent cock. Then, bracing his left hand atop the sofa, he curls the right around his shaft, gives himself a couple of quick strokes.  
  
Nothing. No appreciative twitch. No little spark of pleasure exploding low in his belly and crackling up his spine.  
  
"Come on!" he hisses through clenched teeth, jerking his cock again. He doesn't have time to negotiate with his body. He needs his prick to do what pricks are supposed to do when shown the slightest bit of attention.  
  
 _You don't get to touch yourself_ , a low, commanding voice growls in his mind suddenly.  
  
Captain John H. Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, his default fantasy for efficiently addressing inconvenient physical urges since the night he woke up achingly hard in his room at the inn in Grimpen village.  
  
His cock twinges in his grasp. Pinching his thumb and forefinger together, he peels the foreskin back from the glans. The sweet slide sends a shivery thrill coursing through him. Moaning, he grips his cock more firmly, eyes slipping shut and head tipping back as he begins to stroke himself in earnest, aided by the dribble of precome that leaks out.  
  
 _I said you don't get to touch yourself_ , the voice in his head warns.  
  
"Oh, God," Sherlock gasps, tearing his hand away from his now fully erect prick. He's as ready as he's going to get. Reaching down, he picks up the lube and dildo, slicks the length of blue silicone until it's glistening. He lets the lube bottle fall to the floor with a careless _thud_ , twists his right arm behind his back, his left hand bracing on the sofa. There isn't time for proper preparation. He just cants his pelvis, nudges the head of the dildo into place, and pushes.  
  
"John!" he cries at the rough burn of the initial breach. In his mind's eye, Captain Watson is bending him over a metal table in a laboratory at Baskerville, rucking up his coat, yanking down his trousers, sinking home with a groan. Gripping the end of the dildo tighter, he works it in deeper, relishing the delicious stretch.  
  
 _Look at you, taking it like a greedy little slut_ , the voice in his mind goads. _You belong on my prick, don't you?_  
  
"Oh, God, yes," Sherlock agrees, a deep, breathy rumble, thighs straining as he begins fucking himself down onto the dildo. His left hand tenses into a claw around the sofa, fingernails biting crescent dents into the moss-green leather.  
  
Distantly, he worries that John is going to walk in at any moment, that maybe this isn't such a good idea after all, but then the dildo skids over his prostate and the electric frisson it sends straight to his brain obliterates all remaining rational thought. Captain Watson is holding him down, fingers tight in his hair, cock spearing into him again and again.  
  
"J-John!" he wails, the pleasure an exquisite agony, cresting up over him and washing through his every nerve.  
  
"Sherlock?"  
  
The voice is small, uncertain, and most definitely not the product of Sherlock's imagination. Sherlock instantly stills at the sound of it, his eyes snapping open, breath skittering in and out of his lungs in a shuddering sigh. "It wasn't her ex-boyfriend," he says once he's regained the ability to speak, pulling out the dildo and letting it drop onto the sofa.  
  
"What?" John demands from behind him.  
  
"Alex Moore," Sherlock replies. "Too large. Reynolds would've heard him on the stairs. It was her neighbour Clark."  
  
"Wait — did you — did you really arrange for me to walk in on you in the middle of a wank to test a bloody theory?"  
  
"Yes," Sherlock confirms, unfurling his long legs out from under him and rising from the sofa. He grimaces down at his prick, still jutting into the air, stiff and angry red, then jerks his eyes up and begins padding toward the kitchen.  
  
"Jesus Christ," John curses, trailing after him with heavy, stomping steps.  
  
Sherlock picks his mobile up from beside the microscope on the kitchen table. "Reynolds didn't see cause to engage the second lock on her door on the night of her murder," he says, simultaneously firing off a text to Lestrade. "Moore was a needy nuisance after the break-up, but she went to the police to scare him off, not because she was afraid of him. Clark, on the other hand, wanted her dead. She didn't see it coming. Never took any notice of the shy man—"  
  
Suddenly, John's palm slams between Sherlock's shoulders, forcing him down over the table. A baritone keen escapes him, half shock and half gratitude, and his mobile slips out of his fingers, clattering onto the tabletop.  
  
"Going to tell me why you called out my name?" John snarls. "Or would you rather I just let your bollocks turn blue?"  
  
"Do it," Sherlock begs, pressing back so that his arse nestles against the hardness tenting the crotch of John's jeans. "Fuck me. Please. It's what I want, John. What I've craved. You. _Only you_. Just do it. _Please_."  
  
" _No_ ," John tells him, low and fierce. "You don't get rewarded for being a manipulative dick and an insufferable tease." He dips his left index finger between Sherlock's arse cheeks, skates it over his small, twitching hole. Then, without warning, he plunges the digit inside up to the last knuckle, growling, "Jesus, you're as tight as a fucking nun."  
  
"John!" Sherlock cries, bucking back onto the finger, his hands scrabbling uselessly across the tabletop. Before he has a chance to relish his tiny victory, to even draw another breath, a second finger is working in alongside the first.  
  
"Never been fucked properly, have you?" John says, locating Sherlock's prostate with practiced precision. "Hmm?"  
  
"John, for pity's sake, don't make us both suffer for the sake of trying to teach me some ridiculous lesson."  
  
"I'm doing fine, thank you," John snaps, gliding his fingers in and out. "You're the one who's bloody gagging for it."  
  
"And you're about to burst your zip," Sherlock points out tartly.  
  
John's hand stills, then withdraws, and Sherlock feels a delicious quiver of anticipation low in his gut. There's a rustling sound, and Sherlock realizes that John is taking out his wallet, extracting the condom stashed inside.  
  
"Are you sure that hasn't expired?" Sherlock asks. "How long's it been since your last date again?"  
  
"Shut up," John snarls back, and then there's the sound of foil tearing and the metallic gnash of a zip being undone. He guides his cock between Sherlock's cheeks. Swipes the head over his hole a few times before beginning to push.  
  
"Oh, _God_ ," Sherlock moans as his opening yields and the head of John's cock slips inside of him. "John." It stings like hell, but it's all he's ever wanted and more, and every last nerve in his body sings with the shattering bliss of it.  
  
John's hands clamp around Sherlock's sides at the waist, pinning him down, anchoring him to the table. His cock plows deeper, deeper, so deep, until at last he's flush against Sherlock, pubic hair tickling his skin. " _Jesus_ ," he hisses. "Oh, Jesus-fucking-Christ, Sherlock, figures your arse would be as brilliant as your brain, you arrogant shit."  
  
Then John's hips are retreating, snapping forward again hard enough to make the table judder, the microscope rattle. Sherlock wails. There's just enough slick left inside of him from earlier for the friction to be on the good side of painful.  
  
"You could've tried coming on to me like a normal human being, you know," John says, setting a brutal pace.  
  
"Normal?" Sherlock's eyelids flutter shut and his hands curl into loose fists. " _Dull_."  
  
"No, you need it exactly like this, don't you, you greedy sod? Need my prick like you need air?"  
  
"Yes," Sherlock answers breathlessly, rocking back into John's thrusts.  
  
John leans down, until Sherlock can feel the zip of his jacket scrape his bare back, his hot breath gust against his ear. "Yes, _sir_ ," he corrects, a low, ragged whisper that claims Sherlock as absolutely as the punishing hold of his hands.  
  
Pleasure crashes through Sherlock's body suddenly, wracks along every nerve in searing, incandescent waves. "John!" he screams, arching up off of the table, his release spilling out of him in thick sharp pulses. John doesn't relent, hammering into him through the orgasm, leaving him quivering and sobbing with overstimulation.  
  
Soon, John's hands are trembling, slipping against the sweat-slick flanks in his grip, and Sherlock knows he's close. His tempo slows, until every thrust becomes a crystalline shard of sensation, ramming into Sherlock hard and deep. Sherlock whimpers helplessly under the onslaught. Then, with a final, powerful thrust, John seats himself as far inside as he can get, grunting and cursing and clutching at Sherlock as he at last finds his own completion.  
  
A moment later, Sherlock feels John's sated weight slump onto his back, hears his breath coming in harsh pants. "Jesus Christ, Sherlock, what the hell did we just do?" he manages to ask, sounding slightly mortified.  
  
"You wrecked my arse," Sherlock replies, voice rough from shouting. "It was _perfect_."  
  
"Except for the part where you bribed a tramp so I'd come home early and find you being all seductive."  
  
" _Deductive_ , John," Sherlock demurs. "It was an experiment, necessary to help solve a case."  
  
"If that's what you'd rather tell yourself. I think you just wanted to make me angry enough to shag you senseless."  
  
"Mmm," Sherlock hums noncommittally.  
  
John stands, and Sherlock feels the brush of knuckles against his skin as John squeezes the base of his softened cock to secure the condom, then slowly and carefully eases out of the snug clasp of Sherlock's body. Sherlock winces at the burn of it, his arse suddenly seeming too open, too empty, too bereft of John.  
  
"You're raw," John notes in a tender, almost doctorly tone. "Think I've got some cream upstairs that'll help."  
  
"That thing you said, toward the end," Sherlock says quietly, ignoring John's offer. "Thank you."  
  
"What?" John says. " _Oh_. Yeah. Well."  
  
Sherlock pushes himself up off of the table, his legs wobbling slightly as he turns to meet John's red, sheepish face. "It's what I imagined, John, every time," Sherlock confesses. "You, like _that_."  
  
John blinks, swallows, then nods at him. "Yeah," he says. "You're not as hard to figure out as you like to think."  
  
Sherlock offers him a small smile. "I need a shower," he declares, turning to pad down the hall toward the bathroom. "Move the sofa back into place and clean the table. Mrs. Hudson's due to pop by for tea when she gets home."  



End file.
